


Soul Mates

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 05:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15656529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: I can't believe the manuscript this guy has just set down in front of me. He's on a deadline to produce the political intrigue/suspense novel he's been contracted to write--why am I looking at what is clearly an m/m romantic crime spree romp? And why in God's name are the main characters named "Arthur" and "Eames"?(an origin story of a different kind)





	Soul Mates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinkys_creature_feature](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkys_creature_feature/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sole Mates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13653738) by [pinkys_creature_feature](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkys_creature_feature/pseuds/pinkys_creature_feature). 



> For Pinky, whose Sole Mates story was a total delight. I couldn't resist imagining Eames as the author of that story, trying to get the attention of cool, fashionable Arthur, his impenetrable publisher.
> 
> Many thanks to Coffeewithconsequences and Deinvati for looking it over!

My feet are propped up on the desk and I’m admiring the sleek lines of my new [Louboutin loafers](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/509962357799593109/?lp=true) while waiting for my three o’clock appointment to show up. The author’s been a consistent strong seller for us, he’s versatile and insightful and can write to deadline reliably, so I’m hoping his first chapter will be of similar caliber as his other work. I can approve it and get on with my day. 

Not to mention, the less time spent in this guy’s company, the better. 

A knock on the door and I sweep my feet under the desk. The spikes around the heels of my shoes give me a secret thrill, but I’m not sure I want him seeing them on me. They’re a little flashier than my usual two-toned brogues. I’ve been dreaming about them for months, but somehow I can’t quite believe that they’re real, they’re mine.

He enters and he’s wearing an eye-defying red Dupioni suit, which renders me slack-jawed with horror at how it hugs his broad shoulders just so. He wordlessly places a stapled sheaf of paper in front of me. I pick it up, looking at him with one eyebrow raised.

Speaking of things out of dreams, his mouth has me wondering if I’m still asleep. He’s biting his absurdly plush lower lip, teeth indenting the pinkness, eyes downcast. I could write an entire trilogy about that mouth. If I wrote.

I read through his pages, and my other eyebrow joins the first as they both attempt to climb their way off my face. It’s a short chapter but full of surprises. Contract-breaching surprises, and more personal kinds as well. I don’t know where to start, so I fidget for a moment with my loaded die, rolling it a few times, never tiring of the precise click as it always lands on three. 

I have a lot of questions, several of which amount to, “what the fuck is this?” It’s clearly a gay thriller, not the standard political intrigue/suspense fare he’s been churning out for the last year and half. Next in the running is, “how the hell do you know about my fucking shoes?” I only bought them yesterday, on a long-planned trip to Barney’s for their annual sale. But that’s not even the most baffling part, which is the names--what gives with the _names_? Both eyebrows have slammed down and my face is in power-scowl mode. 

I open my mouth, still not sure which outraged question will come out first. Let it be a surprise, since he’s such a big fan of them.

“Why is this male/male? You know we don’t publish that on a regular basis, unless its literary, but this,” I say, picking up the corner with pointer finger and thumb, “is solidly genre.”

“Can’t write the same story forever, Mr. Levine.”

“You can if you’re paid to.”

“But where’s the fun in that? You don’t learn anything new, there’s no thrill of discovery.”

“Our profits are not based on the thrill of discovery,” I say stiffly. The truth is, I want to find out what else he has planned for this Arthur and this Eames. 

“I write mystery and suspense,” he says. “The thrill of discovery is my stock in trade, and your bread and butter.” 

He’s got me there. “You’re going to have to change their names.” I flush as the words leave my mouth, and I hate it.

“The editor can do a find and replace on them, they’re just placeholder names.” His small smile is bland and impassive, but I can see the smirk hiding within it.

Like hell they’re _placeholder names._ I’ve noticed that the previous three protagonists of Eames’ increasingly less formulaic suspense novels have born an increasingly striking resemblance to me: slender, dark-haired men with a kink for specificity and a stick up their ass. I’d convinced myself it was just my imagination, but suddenly that seems pretty unlikely. For one thing, I don’t have that great an imagination.

For another thing, there’s the shoe thing. But I’m not willing to bring that up, because I’m not sure I want to know what it means that Eames correctly predicted the label and style of the shoes I just purchased. And for yet another thing, I’m absurdly flattered that “Arthur” is a badass motherfucker who takes no prisoners and steals both Aston Martins and the heart (or at least the libido) of a wildly competent, wildly exciting heartbreaker.

I give Eames a quelling look to let him know I’m not fooled, but I’m just buying time. To be honest, I’m beginning to realize that I am being fooled, and that part of me likes it. Not sure what to do about that.

“Where is this going? What happens next?” I ask, all business.

“Well,” Eames says as he stretches out in the deliberately uncomfortable Thonet chair I force my authors to endure. “I was hoping you could help me figure that out.”

I blink.

“No, this is something you’re pitching to me, I’m not…”

“I read your novel,” Eames throws out, like he’s laying a bet on a poker table. 

My novel. That flopped. Worse, that became an object lesson in how not to attempt to blend genres. “Confused, delusional, and worst of all, dull,” was Michiko’s opinion, and to judge by sales, pretty much everyone else’s.

“I thought it was beautiful.” He’s a good actor. His eyes are soft and sincere.

“Right,” I say. “Well, it obviously wasn’t marketable. And, I fear, neither is this.” I push the slight manuscript over to him. He doesn’t take it.

“So you stopped writing? That’s a shame, I thought you were doing something unique and important.”

“This is blatantly a genre m/m book. We have an imprint for that, but that’s not what you signed on to write, and that’s not what I’m paid to approve. What makes you think I’m going to make the leap here?”

“I admit it’s different from what I’ve done before, and it’s different from what I originally proposed to you. But while the, erm, relationship is between two men, this is actually speculative fic as well, not entirely focused on the romance. Like your novel, actually. The relationship undergirds and informs the plot, just as the plot shapes and propels the relationship.”

“That’s…” That’s actually a pretty impressive summation of my novel, and a lot more charitable than most critics, or even my agent, was. “Why does it have to be two men?” I let the unasked question hang in the air. _”Why is it about us?”_

“Arthur,” he says, his voice a dark, rumbling caress of my name, but the undercurrent of coaxing is almost insulting. “We are on the cusp of a new world, or haven’t you noticed? Two men forming a partnership, of whatever kind--is that something we should be ashamed of?”

I clear my throat. “Mr. Eames. We are not in the business of publishing screeds. We sell books. Your audience, such as it is, expects--”

“Expects something I’m not willing to give them any longer. If you don’t want to publish this book, I’ll still write it. Another firm may be interested. Possibly not, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Yes, risk. There’s a deep streak of puckishness about this man that’s always bothered me, even as I find it irresistible. It’s more than possible that his facility with the criminal side of humanity which he demonstrates so effortlessly in his manuscripts comes from actual experience in the seamy underworlds he writes about. 

“But what’s risky about this?” I pretend I haven’t just been questioning the nature of the romance, or whatever it is. “It seems like a straightforward cloak and dagger thriller. Not exactly groundbreaking.”

A flicker of smugness crosses his face, gone in a moment. “The illegal activities these characters are involved in is not strictly mundane. I have this idea for a method of infiltrating someone’s mind, their deepest desires, and capitalizing on it. What would you do if someone could suss out your secret fantasies and… make them come true?”

I feel a hot flush over my entire body. The deepest desire I have about the person in front of me is not exactly difficult to guess, and his gaze is not judgmental, but feels like it penetrates to my core. 

“Like a sex thing?” I say artlessly, and he shifts in his seat, uncrossing his legs and scooting to the edge of the chair, leaning forward.

“Yes,” he says with a tiny smile, and I flush more. His mouth should bear a warning from the Surgeon General. “But not just that. I’m talking about seeing into someone’s dreams. Where all of their most closely-held secrets live. What would the value be of that? If you knew someone had a device like that, technology like that. What would you stop at, to get it?”

“Nothing.” I don’t mention that my main motivation to possess such a thing would be to ensure that no one could use it on me. “Nothing would be off the table.”

“So you see the potential for intrigue. And for interpersonal, shall we say, intimacy. Seeing the inside of someone’s mind? It heightens the stakes in both the plot and the characters’ involvement with each other.” 

I want to stand up and pace around the room. My brain is spinning, the world topsy-turvy for a moment. A speculative novel that is both psychologically and philosophically complex, innovative, and emotionally incendiary. I can see the potential. In spite of myself, I want to help him build this. 

“What if you can do more than see into the dreams,” I ask. A spark ignites behind his eyes, and he leans even closer towards me. 

“Go on,” he prompts.

“What if you can take information from the victims?”

“Marks,” he corrects. Yeah, he’s pulled cons before. Maybe he still does.

“From the marks.” I allow myself to use his terminology. It’s his book, after all. Though not technically, since he’s writing under a contract and I’m pretty sure Robert will never let this one see the light of day under his aegis. Whatever, we’ll figure that out.

“What if you can-” he says, face alight with the joy of creation. 

“Put something in,” I finish. “Put an idea into someone’s head, into their dreams.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “What would you call that? Something that has the potential to alter their whole worldview, their very soul? That would be a beginning, right? A new world for them.”

“Inception,” I say. He sits back in the chair, legs spread wide, looking as pleased as I’ve ever seen him. I find I don’t hate it. I want to see more of that look. I kind of want to make that happen, over and over.

“I think we’ve got something here.”

I don’t think he’s wrong. I shuffle my feet under my desk, unable to meet his hot gaze any longer.

“Tell me you’ll help me with this,” he says.

“We’d have to do an inception on Robert to get him to publish it,” I say. 

“That’s not a no.”

“That’s…” Not a no. It’s not. My self-preservation kicks in and I finish, “but I can’t--”

“You can’t what? Write? I think we both know that’s not true.”

“I can’t guarantee anything, Eames.”

He gives me the longest, most assessing look I’ve ever been on the receiving end of. 

“Give it a chance,” he says.

Chance. Change. Risk.

“Alright,” I say. The moment hangs in the air. I can almost see my life changing, like a waking dream.

Or the end of one.

“You know, it’s a bit creepy that your namesake was surveilling mine for three months.” 

“Is it?” he asks, glib and sly at the same time. “I thought you liked to be looked at. You go to so much trouble. That lithe, gym-toned body. Suits from Zegna. Shoes from Barney’s.”

Clarity strikes. “Did you--? Were you--?” For some reason, I can’t seem to form the right words to accuse him of stalking me. 

“Relax,” he laughs. “You may not have a high opinion of my taste, but I’m not unfamiliar with Barneys and their sales. This suit was half-off. And these shoes--” 

He’s wearing [black patent Louboutins](https://www.fashionphile.com/christian-louboutin-mens-patent-spikes-dynodent-flat-loafers-42-black-212117), the ones with the spikes at the toe, not the heel. The inverse of my shoes. Opposites but perfectly complementary. And both blood-red underneath, by turns vulnerable and shocking.

"Looks like we’re sole mates," I say, and watch as his entire face lights up.


End file.
